Ali and Nino

by Kurban Said

  ‘We are Shirvanshirs,’ said my father.

  ‘Is Assad es Saltaneh Shirvanshir, for whom the Shah’s Diamond Gate is opened, so fortunate as to have the same blood in his veins as yours?’

  ‘He is my brother.’ We disembarked. The man accompanied us. When we came to the storehouse he said: ‘Assad es Saltaneh divined your coming. He has sent his machine which is stronger than the lion, faster than the stag, more beautiful than the eagle, more secure than a castle on a rock.’ We turned a corner. There on the street, gasping asthmatically, stood an old rickety Ford. The tyres were mended in several places. We got in, and the engine started to tremble. The driver’s eyes looked into the far distance, as if he were the captain of an ocean liner. It took only half an hour for the car to start, and then we began our journey to Teheran via Resht.

  23

  Enseli—Resht—streets and villages, the desert’s breath hot on them. From time to time Abi-Jesid appears on the horizon like a ghost, Abi-Jesid, the Devil’s Water, the Persian Fata Morgana. The grand road to Resht carries us along a river bed, but there is no river, and the bed is caked with mud. There is no running water in Persia’s rivers, just pools and puddles here and there. On the dry shores stand rocks, throwing their shadows on the sand, and they look like prehistoric giants with fat stomachs, sleepy and content. The sound of a caravan’s bells comes from afar. Our car slows up, and we see camels striding along the steep mountain range. The leader walks in front, carrying a rod in his hand, followed by men in black garments. The camels stride on, strong and tense. The little bells on their necks tinkle slowly with every measured step. Long dark sacks are hanging down on both sides from the camels’ backs. Are they carrying silks from Ispahan? Or wool from Giljan? The car stops. Dead bodies are hanging there. A hundred, two hundred dead bodies, wrapped in black sheets. The camels pass us, heads nodding like stalks in a cornfield, when the wind brushes them. Through deserts and mountains, through the white glare of the salt steppe, through many a green oasis, passing great lakes, the caravan carries its load. Far away, on the Turkish border, the camels will kneel down. Civil Servants, wearing the red fez, will prod the bodies, and then the caravan will move on again to the cupolas of the Holy Town of Kerbela. They will halt near the vault of the Martyr Hussein. Careful hands will carry the bodies to their prepared graves, where they can rest in Kerbela’s sands till the Last Trumpet will wake them from their sleep. We bow to them, our hands covering our eyes: ‘Pray for us at the saint’s grave!’ we cry, and their leader answers: ‘We are ourselves in need of prayer!’ And the caravan moves on, silently, like a shadow, like Abi-Jesid, the Fata Morgana of the great desert. …

  We are driving through the streets of Resht. Wood and clay hide the horizon. Here one can feel the long centuries that have passed since this town was founded. The clay houses huddle in narrow alleys, as if afraid of wide expanses. Clay and glowing coal are the only colours. Everything is tiny, perhaps symbolically submitting to fate. It comes as a surprise to see a mosque rising up suddenly among all these cowering huts. The men wear round caps, which look like pumpkins, on their shorn heads, and their faces are like masks. Dust and dirt everywhere. It is not that Persians particularly like dust and dirt, they just leave things as they are because they know that in the end all returns to dust. We rest in a little tea house. The room smells of hashish. The men look at Nino with sidelong glances. A dervish stands in a corner, wrapped in rags, his mouth open, his lips covered in spittle, a copper bowl in his hand. He looks at everyone and no one, as if listening to an invisible presence, as if waiting for a sign from this unseen. He radiates an unbearable silence. Suddenly he leaps up, his mouth open, and cries out: ‘I see the sun rise in the West!’ The crowd shudders. A Governor’s Messenger appears at the door: ‘His Excellency has ordered a guard because of the naked woman.’ He means Nino, who is not wearing a veil. Nino remains impassive, she does not speak Persian. We spend the night at the Governor’s house. In the morning our guards saddle their horses. They will accompany us all the way to Teheran, because Nino refuses to wear the veil, and therefore is considered naked, but also because of the bandits roaming the country. Slowly, slowly the car drags itself through the desert. We pass Kasvin with its ancient ruins. Here Shah Shapur drew his armies together. The frail Sefevids, artists, artists’ protectors, and apostles, held court here.

  Another eighty, seventy, sixty miles—the road winds like a long serpent. And then—there is the Gate of Teheran, with its soft many-coloured tiles. Starkly the four towers stand against the snow of far-off Demavend. The black Arabic archway with its wise inscription looks at me like a demon’s eye. Beggars with horrifying sores, wandering dervishes in filthy rags are lying in the dust under the big gate. Their hands with the slender aristocratic fingers are stretched out, to us. They sing of the splendour of the kingly town of Teheran, their voices mournful and sad. Long ago they too came with high hopes to the town of many cupolas. Now they are dust, lying in the dust, and sing sorrowful melodies of this town that has rejected them. The little car finds its way through the maze of alleys, across Cannon Square, passing the Imperial Diamond Gate, and then outside again, on to the wide road to the suburb of Shimran. The gate of the Shimran palace stood wide open, and as we passed through it the perfume of roses came towards us like a cloud. The blue tiles on the walls looked cool and friendly. Quickly we walked through the garden, where the fountain threw silver water into the air. The dark room with its curtained windows was like a cool well. Nino and I dropped on the soft cushions and immediately fell into an endless sleep.

  We slept, woke up, slumbered, dreamed and slept on. It was wonderful to be in this cool room with its draped windows. The floor and the low divans were covered with innumerable cushions, mats and bolsters. In our dreams we heard the nightingales sing. It was strange to slumber in this big quiet house, far away from all danger, far from Baku’s weatherbeaten wall. The hours passed quietly. From time to time Nino sighed, rose sleepily, and then put her head back on my stomach. I dropped my face into the soft cushions, perfumed with the sweet scent of a Persian harem. I felt infinitely lazy. For hours I was suffering, because my nose itched, and I was too indolent to raise my hand to scratch it. At last the itching stopped and I fell asleep again. Suddenly Nino woke up, rose and said: ‘Ali Khan, I’m dying of hunger.’ We went out into the garden. Rose bushes were in bloom around the fountain, cypresses reached up to the sky. A peacock, his tail an enormous coloured circle, stood motionless, looking at the setting sun. Far away the white peak of Demavend rose against the red and gold. I clapped my hands. A eunuch with a bloated face rushed up to us, followed by an old woman, stumbling under a load of rugs and cushions. We sat down in the shade of a cypress. The eunuch fetched bowls and water and covered the rugs with delicacies of the Persian cuisine. ‘Well—I suppose I’d rather eat with my fingers than listen to machine-guns,’ said Nino, and put her left hand into the steaming rice bowl. The eunuch’s face was a study in horror—he looked away, so as not to see his master’s shame. I showed Nino how to eat rice in Persia: by using three fingers of her right hand. She laughed for the first time since we had left Baku, and I felt calm and tranquil. It was wonderful to be in the Shimran palace, in the Shah’s quiet peaceful land of devout poets and sages. Suddenly Nino asked: ‘Where is your uncle, Assad es Saltaneh, and all his harem?’

  ‘In his city palace, I suppose, and his four wives with him. And the harem? But this is the harem, this garden, and the rooms around it.’

  Nino laughed: ‘So I’m imprisoned in a harem after all. I thought it would come to that.’ A second eunuch, a skinny old man, came to ask us whether we would like him to sing to us. We declined. Three girls rolled up the rugs, the old woman carried the left-overs away, and a little boy started feeding the peacock.

  ‘Who are all these people, Ali Khan?’

  ‘They’re servants.’

  ‘Good God, how many servants have we here then?’ I did not know and called the eunuch. He pondered
for a long time, his lips moving silently. It came out that about twenty-eight people were looking after the harem.

  ‘And how many women are living here?’

  ‘As many as you order, Khan. At present there is only the one sitting next to you. But we have plenty of room. Assad es Saltaneh is in town with his women. This is your harem.’ He squatted down on his haunches and continued with great dignity: ‘My name is Jahja Kuli. I am the guard of your honour, Khan. I can read, write, and do sums. I know all about management and how to treat women. You can depend on me. I can see this is a wild one, but in time I will teach her how to behave. Tell me when she has her periods, so I can make a note of it and remember. I’ll have to know this, so I can judge her moods. For I’m sure she can be ill-tempered. I’ll wash and shave her myself. I see she has even got hair in her armpits. It is really terrible how in some countries women’s education is neglected. Tomorrow I’ll dye her nails red, and before she goes to bed I’ll look into her mouth.’

  ‘Good heavens, what for?’

  ‘Women with bad teeth have foul breath, so I must see her teeth and smell her breath.’

  ‘What’s the creature jabbering about?’ asked Nino.

  ‘He’s recommending a dentist. Seems a queer character.’ That came out sounding rather embarrassed. I told the eunuch: ‘Jajha Kuli, I see you are an experienced person, who knows all about culture. But my wife is pregnant, and must be treated very carefully. Therefore we’ll leave the education until she has had the child.’ I could feel myself blushing. It was true that Nino was pregnant, and yet I had lied. ‘You are very wise, Khan,’ said the eunuch. ‘Pregnant women are very slow to learn. By the way, there is a potion for making it a boy. But—’ he looked searchingly at Nino’s slender figure—‘I think there’s plenty of time for that.’

  Outside, on the verandah, many slippers were shuffling along. Eunuchs and women made mysterious signs. Jahja Kuli went out and came back, his face in serious folds. ‘Khan, His Reverence, the learned Hafis Seyd Mustafa desires to greet you. I would not dare to disturb you, Khan, while you are enjoying the pleasures of your harem, but the Seyd is a learned man from the House of the Prophet. He is awaiting you in the Master’s Suite.’ At the word ‘Seyd’ Nino raised her head. ‘Seyd Mustafa?’ she repeated, ‘let him come in, we’ll have tea together.’ The House of Shirvanshir’s reputation escaped utter ruin only by the fact that the eunuch did not understand Russian. It beggars imagination—a Khan’s wife receives another man in the harem!! Embarrassed and a bit shamefacedly I said: ‘But Seyd can’t come in here. This is the harem.’ ‘Oh. Haven’t they got funny customs here. All right, we’ll see him outside.’

  ‘Nino, I’m afraid … I don’t quite know how to explain … you see here in Persia things are rather different. What I mean, is … Seyd really is a man, isn’t he?’

  Nino’s eyes opened wide. ‘Do you mean to say that Seyd mustn’t see me—that same Seyd who took me all the way to Daghestan?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s about it, Nino, at least for the time being.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nino, suddenly quite cold, ‘you’d better go now.’

  I went, rather dejectedly. Then I sat in the big library with Seyd, drinking tea. He told me about his plans to go to Meshed, to stay there with his famous uncle, until Baku would be free of unbelievers. I agreed this was a good plan. Seyd was a polite man, he did not ask about Nino, did not even pronounce her name. Suddenly the door opened. ‘Good evening, Seyd.’ Nino’s voice was controlled, but she sounded depressed. Seyd Mustafa jumped up. His pock-marked face showed something like terror. Nino sat down on the mats: ‘Another cup of tea, Seyd?’ From the corridor we heard innumerable slippers scurrying to and fro. The House of Shirvanshir’s honour had collapsed for ever. It took Seyd several minutes to recover from his horror. Nino made a little face at him: ‘I was not afraid of machine-guns, and I won’t be afraid of your eunuchs.’ And so we stayed together for hours, for Seyd was not only a polite, but also a very tactful man. Before we went to bed the eunuch approached me humbly: ‘Lord, punish me. I should have watched her. But who could have foreseen that she would be so wild—so wild. It is my fault.’ His fat face expressed deepest self-reproach.

  24

  It was strange—when the last shots had been fired on the oil-drenched shore of Bibi-Eibat I had thought I could never be happy again. And now, after only four weeks in the fragrant gardens of Shimran I was wholly at peace. I felt at home, and just lived like a plant, breathing the cool air of this tranquil place near Teheran. I did not drive to town very often, just to see friends and relatives from time to time, and to stroll through the dark labyrinths of the bazaar, accompanied by my servants. Narrow alleys, booths like tents, lamps burning in dark corners, people dressed in flowing garments, in wide trousers, in rags, and all of it covered by a domed roof, like an umbrella made of clay. I rummaged in roses, nuts, carpets, scarves, silks and jewels. I found gold-patterned jugs, ancient filigree necklaces and bracelets, choice perfumes, and cushions made of Morocco leather. Heavy silver tomans glide into the merchants’ pockets. My servants are loaded with all the marvels of the Orient—all for Nino. I cannot bear it when her little face looks so terrified out there in the rose garden. The servants’ backs are bent under their loads. I walk on. In one corner they are selling Korans bound in soft leather, and miniature paintings: a girl sitting under a cypress, next to her a Prince with almond eyes—a king hunting, a lance and a fleeing stag. Again the silver tomans clink. A bit further on two merchants crouch at a low table. One of them takes big coins from his pocket and gives them to the other, who scrutinises them carefully, bites them, weighs them on small scales and then puts them into a big bag. A hundred, a thousand maybe ten thousand times the merchant puts his hand into his pocket, before the debt is paid. His movements are sedate and dignified. Tshidaret! Trade! Was not Mohammed himself a merchant?

  The bazaar is a maze. Next to the two merchants a sage sits in his booth, turning over the leaves of a book. His face looks like a rock on which a weather-beaten inscription is overgrown with moss. His long slender fingers are patient and delicate. From yellow moulding pages arises the perfume of the roses of Shiras, the song of Persian nightingales, joyous melodies, the vision of almond eyes and long lashes. The old man’s beautiful hands turn the pages lovingly. Whispers, noises, cries. I started to haggle for an ancient soft-coloured carpet from Kerman. Nino loves the smooth lines of these woven gardens. Near me somebody is selling rose water and rose oil. Thousands of roses are blended in one drop of the precious rose oil, just as thousands of people are brought together in the narrow lanes of Teheran’s bazaar. In my mind’s eye I see Nino bent over a small bowl filled with rose oil.

  The servants are exhausted. ‘Take all this to Shimran, quickly, I’ll come later.’ They disappear in the crowd. I stoop and enter through a low door into a Persian tearoom, crowded with people. A red-bearded man sits in the middle. His eyes are half closed, he recites one of Hafis’ love poems. The listener sigh enraptured. Then he reads from a newspaper: ‘In America someone has invented a machine that can bring the spoken word to the listener. His Imperial Majesty, The King of Kings, whose splendour outshines the sun, whose hand reaches up to Mars, whose throne is higher than the world, received the resident of the monarch who at present reigns over England in his palace at Baghashah. In Spain a child was born that has three heads and four feet. The populace believe this to be a bad omen.’ The listeners click their tongues in astonishment. Red-beard folds his newspaper. Another song! this time about the Knight Rustem and his son Sorab. I hardly listen, but look into the hot golden tea and ponder: things are not what they should be.

  I am content, I am in Persia and live in a palace. But Nino lives in the same palace, and she is far from content. She was quite happy in Daghestan, though she had to bear all the discomforts of life in the wilderness. Here she just cannot come to terms with Persian etiquette. She wants to walk along the streets with me, even though the pol
ice forbid this strictly. Man and wife simply cannot go out together, neither can they receive guests together. She asks me to show her the town and is upset when I try to talk her out of it: ‘I would love to show you the town, Nino. But I must not show you to the town.’ Her big dark eyes look at me reproachful and bewildered. How can I make her understand that a Khan’s wife simply cannot walk along the streets unveiled? I buy the most expensive veils: ‘Look Nino, how beautiful. How they protect the face from sun and dust. Honestly, I would like to wear one myself.’ She smiles sadly and puts the veils away: ‘It degrades a woman to cover her face, Ali Khan. I would despise myself if I put this on.’ I show her the police regulations. She tears them up and I order a closed coach with crystal windows. So I drive her through the town. On Cannon Square she saw my father and wanted to say hello to him. It was terrible, and I had to buy up half the bazaar to make it up with her. … And now I’m sitting here all by myself, looking into my teacup. Nino is dying of boredom, and I cannot help her. She wants to meet the wives and daughters of the European colony. But that would not do. A Khan’s wife must not mix with the women of the unbelievers. They would be sorry for her, because she has to live in a harem, and in the end she would feel she really could not bear it any longer.

  A few days ago she went to see my aunts and cousins, and came back terribly distracted. ‘Ali Khan,’ she cried in despair, ‘they wanted to know how many times a day you honour me by making love to me. They say you are always with me. Their men tell them so—and they cannot imagine we’re doing anything else. They gave me a charm against demons and an amulet that is certain to safeguard me against any rival. Your aunt Sultan Hanum asked me whether it wasn’t too tiring to be the only wife of such a young man, and they all wanted to know what I do to keep you from going to the dancing boys. Your cousin Suata wanted to know whether you had ever had a dirty illness. They say I’m to be envied. Ali Khan, I feel as if they had thrown filth at me.’ I comforted her as well as I could. She was crouching in the corner like a frightened child, and kept looking over her shoulder, terrified. It took her a long time to calm down.